Every day is the exact same.

The same sequence, the same bloody schedule; it never changes. It's like being trapped in a spiderweb: you can struggle and try to escape but in the end you've just made it worse. You end up dying there inside that silky prison, and that's how your story ends. Don't struggle, don't change, or else it'll go to shit: that's life, for me at least.

Every day yields the same fruit: none.

There's no result from my labour, no finish line. I can't see a light at the end of the tunnel, because hell, this tunnel might as well extend from one end of the universe to the other. I can't breathe because I'm underwater, and lord knows I can't swim for shit.

Every day is a struggle.

My life is a monotonous blur and it pains me to open my eyes in the morning. It sends a pang of agony through my hollow body every night to know that I'll have to wake up and do it all over again.

I wish I had died. I wish—

"Dan?"

I lift my tired eyes from the sepia pages of the water-stained notebook and blow on the ink to dry it, placing my pen in the margin nearest to the spine and shutting it forcefully. My hand shakes with anxious tremors as the door swings open and hits the wall. I wince at the noise, and I stare up at him from my prison of pillows and blankets.

"Sorry, Bear," he clasps his hands together and scans the room. His eyes return to me, and I send a knowing glance his way. "Have you moved all day?"

I look down in defeat, and that's an answer that satisfies his query. He sighs, and closes the door with a careful grip, trying to make the click as silent as possible. He's had practice now, and manages to make the snap back of the handle almost mute.

He sashays over to the chest of drawers with the chipping paint and splintering wood and picks up one of the bottles. The lid hits the table with a plastic sounding thud and the sound of pills emptying into his palm hits my ears. The schedule on the table is missing a tick mark for today, the thirtieth of August, and I feel my heart sink a tad. I'd forgotten again.

That pill bottle closes and another three are opened: Zoloft, Wellbutrin, and Lamictal. My three kings of the pharmaceutical world. The doctors stopped adding on after these stopped working together. That was months ago; and I'm steadily getting worse. That's life for you: a steady decline into the abyss, I guess.

He picks up a red pen and ticks off today's medications for the morning, and carries a small cup of six pills over to me while also handing me my water bottle. I toss them back and cough at the sudden taste of pill capsules, and he pats my back like I'm a small child as I choke them down.

I feel like I'm drowning once again.

He fixes the glasses onto my nose and kisses my cheek, giving me a sympathetic smile as he runs a pale hand through my tangled mess of hair. I exhale and fog up both our glasses, and brown meets blue as our eyes lock for what seems like the first time in an eternity.

"You're getting better," Phil states in a whisper. "I promise you you're getting better."

He sounds like he's trying to convince someone...but the only person he's trying to convince is himself. I've heard the doctors speak—I'm not getting better, and I never will. I'm a lost cause, a burden. The words from my journal flood through my mind again.

They never leave me alone.

I scoff slightly and give him an absentminded bite of my lip. "Yeah, and who the hell is saying that?"

"Me," he answers, pecking my lips and standing up. He grabs something off the bedside table and turns back to me. "I'm saying that, Dan."

He hands me the something he picked up and I take it in my shaky hands. The day never truly begins until I'm reminded of what happened, what I lost, and the monster I am now. He can piece me back together all he wants, but I'll always be the same inside. I lift my eyes to meet his and he gives me an unsympathetic smile. He's learned that sympathy does nothing but discourage, and I hate that he ever had to adapt to...well, me.

"Doctor Harris called," he says, plopping himself down beside me. "It's time for a refill and a follow up. I scheduled it for tomorrow."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," I laugh as I die on the inside once again. My eyes become stone and I scoff. "And what if I don't want to go, Phil?"

"You're going," he demands, but in a pleading tone. "You have to go."

I chuckle, and take his hand. "I only go to these bleeding appointments where nothing gets solved and our finances go down the drain because I love you. Not because I think I will ever get better."

"Then keep doing it for me!" He places a hand on the place just below the back of my neck and his sparkling eyes water. "If you give up, Dan, I'll never forgive you. You can't give up."

"Shouldn't you be filming?" I cut him off.

He just stares at me. "I guess I should. But the fans can wait, Dan."

"Don't you think they've been waiting enough?" I smile derisively—not at him but at myself. "Don't let them down like I did, Phil."

"I told them you're struggling with your mental health right now," he whispers. "And it's true."

"If I was 'struggling' it'd come to an end sometime." I shrug his hand off my shoulder. "This is terminal."

"Dan—"

"Go," I murmur. "Go film. I'll change my shirt and guest star. Just give me a few minutes and I'll make my way there."

He nods simply. "I'll pan the camera again."

I get a kiss on the forehead and he leaves the room, keeping the door open. I tug a random sweatshirt from the accumulated pile of clothes on my bed and inhale, peeling the "My Neighbour Totoro" t-shirt I've been wearing for three days straight over my head. My hand brushes against my torso accidentally and I look down. The white streaks are still raised like they're fresh, and the bruises never quite went away fully, as they're still a yellowish brown colour. I sigh and tug the fleece hoodie over my head, narrowly avoiding knocking my glasses to the floor.

I scoot to the edge of the wicker bed and pick up the silicone apparatus from the pillow. I lift the blankets to reveal my lower body and carefully push my leg stump into the prosthetic limb and flinch as the pin clicks, sending shivers down my spine. I put my house shoes on over my "feet" and grab my cane, pushing all my weight onto it to lift myself from the bed. As soon as my prosthetic is stabilised by the floor, I stumble and my real leg threatens to give out, sending me to the floor in a helpless heap.

As I limp through the hallway I wonder what it would be like if I hadn't survived. If I had died rather than lived. The familiarly annoying click of the metal joint matches the pressure on my soul from the weight of imperfection, and I stop. I lean against the wall and begin sobbing, staring through a kaleidoscope of tears at the buckling and shaking fake leg, a sorry excuse for what I've lost.

Hello. My name's Dan Howell, and I swear on my right leg and left stump that I wish I was dead.

Every single day is the exact same. He's the only thing that's dynamic, and if it wasn't for Phil Lester, I would have never woken up that day.